


For Remembrance

by exmachinarium



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, M/M, post-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once all the grim happenings at Elsinore were explained, Horatio decided his presence was no longer required.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> This is the revised version of a rather old "Hamlet" fic that I still feel sort of sentimental about. Warnings for lots of angst and probably poor-ish English (it's a really old piece, mind you).

Once all the grim happenings at Elsinore were explained - briefly at first, then in detail, to both king Fortinbras and the English Ambassador, Horatio decided his presence was no longer required. And thus, with the new king's permission, the scholar was at present preparing himself for the returning journey to Wittenberg, collecting what little possessions he brought along inside his tattered, weather-beaten travelling bag; pieces of clothing, blank sheets of parchment, but mostly volumes upon volumes of books.

He had once overheard Rosencrantz… Or was it Guildenstern?… Joking that, should Horatio be invited for a full day of hunting, he'd bring with himself nothing but a book and spend all his time chasing letters instead of deer or foxes. Which was probably true, but neither Rosencrantz nor Guildenstern would ever get a chance to find out.

Were there any observers to the scholar's hasty ritual of packing, they'd deem his actions a sudden, almost frantic escape; which would be justified, Horatio having arrived not more than few days (or was it weeks already? Or just mere hours?) ago. But in the man's mind there was no overwhelming need for haste; no need for… Anything, really. Arrangements had been made, permission granted, and in the wee hours of the following morning Horatio would head back to Wittenberg to continue his most promising studies. There would be, of course, some lectures to be caught up with, some lecturers to have their explanations delivered to. But for Horatio it was no trouble whatsoever; while others gained their privileges through wealth and acquaintances, his remarkable skills of observation and reasoning won him a certain dose of acknowledgement from fellow scholars and masters alike – which, for the man in question, was more than a fair compensation for his constant and constantly crippling lack of funds.

And being not a native of Denmark, he sincerely doubted he'd visit the hostile country again, whether in near or far future.

The lone scholar had just about finished preparations and retired for another sleepless night, when a lone slip of parchment on the floor caught his attention. Initially taking it for a loose page from a book, Horatio picked it up hastily, wanting to return the stray to its rightful place. But as his eyes rested on the initial lines of the letter – for a letter it turned out to be – he nearly let it fall to the ground once more; his fingers first going slack, then, in the very second, coiling around the mocking piece of writing, wholeheartedly intending to vanquish it – but, eventually, devoid of the power to do so.

Not hesitating for more than a blink of an eye, Horatio returned to his luggage and, not even once glancing at the letter directly, hid it beneath all his belongings, at the very bottom of his travelling bag - to be aware of its presence but spared from the sight of it. There was no use of tracing the ink lines, rushed yet peculiarly elegant; remembering what events preceded them, what followed, how the cold Danish wind bitten mercilessly the fingers of the sender as ink had been freshly colouring the parchment black.

No use... Or rather, no need to refresh the closing words that were carved in Horatio's soul more solidly than they could ever be in all the marbles of Elsinore, that frigid, lifeless place of dread and wonder.

"He that thou knowest thine."


End file.
